A Chance Meeting
by EllisLuie
Summary: Late one night, a young Mycroft Holmes hears noises from the garden. Going to investigate, he finds a strange visitor rampaging through his mother's flowers. As children, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes meet a ridiculous man who calls himself the Doctor.
**Not really much in the way of plot, just a bit of fun.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable. Both Sherlock and Doctor Who belong to the BBC.**

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There's a funny man in their garden, trotting all over Mummy's prized petunias, and Mycroft isn't entirely sure what to do. The man's all gangly limbs and pointy chin, marching circles around a smoking police box of all things, shouting at it as if hoping it will do any good. He hasn't noticed Mycroft yet, standing in the doorway of the back door, too busy with the shouting and tripping over his own feet. He's making a mess of the garden, but that's okay, because Mycroft's never been a fan of the bright flowers and vegetable patch Mummy works over every year, only for the plants to wither and die and frustrate her; but when the funny man veers too close to the little sandpit and fairy patch, feet threatening to tramp all over them, Mycroft steps out from the shadows and heatedly yells out to the stranger.

"Hey! Stop! You're going to ruin my brother's things."

The strange man spins around, wide eyed and off balance, but thankfully avoids crushing the fairy garden. "Hello!" he calls. "Sorry! Just a spot of trouble! Won't be a moment."

So Mycroft falls silent and continues to watch as the man resumes his odd dance around the battered box, finally devolving to throwing rocks and hitting it with branches as if he's a child in the midst of a tantrum. He's making so much noise that Mycroft's surprised his parents haven't heard and come to investigate, let alone his brother, but the windows of the house behind him remain dark and silent.

"Do you need help with something?" Mycroft finally asks as the man gives up in defeat and collapses against the blue box, patting it in apology. "Should I call someone for you?" He wonders if there's a service available to repair old police boxes, and if so, where he can find the number.

"No," the man sighs. "She'll fix herself up in the end; she always does. Not sure how long it'll take this time."

With only a moment's hesitation, Mycroft throws caution to the wind and heads over to the stranger, perching on the ground beside him. "How did you get here?" he asks curiously, barely even flinching as the box at his back gives a few pops and whines. He isn't entirely convinced this isn't all a dream, so he isn't too worried.

The man looks at him, mouth twitching into a smile, and leans in closer. "I fell out of the sky," he confides quietly, then waits, as if expecting a grand reaction to this revelation. He's destined to be disappointed, as Mycroft is utterly unfazed by this, all too used to all manner of outlandish things thanks to his brother. Granted, Sherlock has never claimed to come from the sky, and he's never shouted at a police box, but even so, Mycroft's tolerance for 'weird' is higher than most.

Beside him, the stranger's face falls, but he recovers quickly. "I'm the Doctor," he announces with a flourish. "No, just the Doctor," he adds quickly, seeing Mycroft's mouth open. "And this is my TARDIS! She's seen better days. She's usually much more impressive, I promise."

"Mycroft," is what he gets in return. "What does TARDIS mean?"

"Oh, well, plenty of things," the Doctor says. "When I'm bored I like to change it around. Officially, it's Time and Relative Dimensions in Space, but it's much more fun to think of new meanings, don't you think? Anyway! Big blue box falls out of the sky, funny man in a bowtie in your back garden, and you don't even blink! With a name like Mycroft, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

The box gives what sounds like a hefty sigh, and the Doctor absently pats it.

"Tell me, Mycroft; why haven't your parents come to investigate this domestic disturbance?" he asks with a sly smile. Mycroft shrugs.

"They're heavy sleepers," he confides. "You're not really making much noise, just… shouting and hitting things. Not enough to wake them up."

Something flickers across one of the darkened windows in the house, but Mycroft can't tell what it is.

"Woke you up, though," the Doctor points out. "Why's that?"

There's definitely something in the windows. A small something, but a something nonetheless.

Distracted, Mycroft forces himself to turn back to the strange man next to him. "I'm used to waking up at little noises. My brother's always getting into trouble when everyone's asleep. I need to keep an eye on him, else he'll do something horrid."

It's not until the man tries raising them that Mycroft realises the Doctor doesn't have much in the way of eyebrows. "Your brother?" he repeats. "I'm surprised we haven't woken him up, then! What's he called? Something like Mycroft, I bet, eh?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" a proud voice declares.

The small something from the windows is now standing on the back step, and is revealed to be a little boy with a pirate's hat jammed on his head. He's in his pajamas, and makes quite a ridiculous sight, though Mycroft supposes he really can't be one to judge considering his own appearance.

"That's quite a name," the Doctor says, unsurprised by the new arrival. "Do you go by Will?"

The little pirate scowls. "No! I'm Sherlock. Sherlock is a much better pirate name than Will."

The Doctor nods along like he completely understands, and for a moment, Mycroft bizarrely thinks he does. Sherlock hovers by the back step, obviously wanting to come closer, but unsure of himself around this stranger. Sherlock's never been one to care much enough about anything to be shy, but it is the middle of the night and he is only little, so Mycroft doesn't hold it against him. He waves his brother over, signalling it's okay. After all, this stranger seems relatively harmless so far.

Sherlock neatly trips down the steps and picks his way over to his brother, tricorne hat wobbling precariously atop his matted curls. Mycroft notices the stranger – some part of his logical mind violently rejects the notion of acknowledging the ridiculous title of 'Doctor' – eyeing Sherlock's beloved hat with something that looks suspiciously like jealousy, and yet somehow Mycroft is not surprised by this display of childishness from a grown man. To be fair, this is the same man who'd been having a temper tantrum not ten minutes ago.

Mycroft's little brother stops in front of them, taking a moment to scrutinize the pair sitting against the blue box closely. Absently, Mycroft wonders what he's seeing. They must make an odd sight, a man who seems nothing but a chin in a grandiose bowtie alongside a twelve-year-old in his primly creased pajamas, the white cotton stained green by the vibrant grass underfoot; all set against a backdrop of an absurdly out of place police box that's still giving off a waning plume of smoke.

Even Mycroft isn't sure where to start with the deductions, so he doesn't hold much faith in Sherlock; his brother may have a determined passion for the art of deduction that Mycroft happens to be lacking, but he's still only four years of age, and he is a bit, well, _slow._ In comparison to Mycroft, anyway, and really that's all that matters since Mycroft's development is the only yardstick they have to measure by.

"Who're you?" Sherlock demands to know, narrowing his steely grey eyes. "Why are you in Mummy's garden?"

"Thought I'd take a stroll," the Doctor answers breezily, morosely patting his head as if missing something. "Got a bit lost. Hello, I'm the Doctor!"

For a moment, Sherlock doesn't speak, and Mycroft watches the cogs whir and work in his baby brother's head. Finally, he shrugs and accepts this little tidbit of information, seemingly trusting the strange man enough to believe him. He plops down next to Mycroft, taking no heed of the dirt and grass that will surely stain his pajamas, and straightens the hat on his head carefully.

"You ruined Mummy's flowers," Sherlock observes, prodding a trodden flower with his foot. The lovingly cared for petunia is now smashed into the ground with a bent stem and ripped petals, a fraction of the beauty it had been. Mummy Holmes would not be at all happy.

The Doctor peers over sheepishly, scratching his head. "Ah, yes," he says, clearing his throat. "Well, that was an accident. Terribly sorry; I'm sure it can be fixed right up." He leans over Mycroft to pluck at the battered flower, attempting to stand it up on its disfigured stem. Once he lets go, it droops back to the ground sadly. "Maybe not," the Doctor concedes apologetically. "I can replace that. There's a whole garden in the TARDIS; we can give your mother a new plant. Ooh, the Tictallian Gnasher is a lovely flower, found only on one side of this _tiny_ moon two galaxies over –"

"You're mad," Sherlock deduces firmly, eyeing the poor flower as it's finally allowed to rest its weary petals on the ground in peace. "Isn't he, My?"

"Quite," Mycroft agrees mildly, mentally applauding his brother for this simple observation. "It's rude to say so to people's faces," he adds belatedly, absently remembering Mummy's instructions to teach Sherlock manners. Personally, he believes it's a lost cause, as Sherlock has already proven his complete apathy and disinterest concerning other people's feelings, but Mummy Holmes has always wanted two darling gentlemen sons, and Mycroft isn't eager to dispel her hopes and dreams just yet.

Beside them, the stranger snorts in laughter. "What's so bad about being mad?" he asks cheerfully, slinging an arm around Mycroft's shoulders. "Personally, I find it makes everything more fun. Madman in a blue box, that's me."

Sherlock nods sagely, accepting the absurdity as if he comes across this sort of thing all the time. "What happened to your box?" he asks, watching the smoke disperse over their heads, a gentle murmur of clunking and whining adding a nice background tone to their conversation. "How did you get it in our garden?"

"He says he fell from the sky," Mycroft answers gently, shrugging his way out from under the stranger's arm. "I assume he believes this box can fly."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Not very well," he drawls, stretching out his legs. "Not if it crashed."

The 'Doctor' blinks at this piece of wisdom, mouth falling open as if ready to spill forth a convincing argument. A moment passes, and no words pass his lips. Another moment comes and goes, and still all three are silent. Slowly, he closes his mouth and deflates, sticking out his lip in a pout.

"How about this," he finally finds in his vocabulary. "Once my blue box has fixed herself up, I'll show you how I got here. I'll take you on an adventure through the stars. Any preferences on where we go for the first trip?"

Both brothers turn to squint at him suspiciously, brains working to understand the decidedly ridiculous babble that seems to be the only way the stranger can communicate. Sherlock's the first one to accept it all, shrugging and twisting around to examine the steaming police box. Mycroft takes a few moments longer, scrutinizing the Doctor closely as the man kindly gives him time to come to a decision, focussing on answering Sherlock's questions about the so-called 'TARDIS'.

"Very well," Mycroft eventually declares, pushing to his feet and delicately brushing the stray grass from his pajamas. "Let's say we believe you. I say we go to this tiny moon of yours where we can pick up one of those flowers for Mummy." Pointedly, he nudges the broken petunia, giving the Doctor an accusatory look. "How exactly do you propose we get there? Your box, even if it does somehow _fly_ , is too small for the three of us."

Excitement blooms on the Doctor's face as he bounces up, clapping his hands together. "Right then!" he crows, impatiently pulling Sherlock to his feet. "The thing about my TARDIS is, she's no ordinary police box." He leans forward conspiratorially, dropping his voice to a whisper. "She's bigger on the inside."

Seeing their disbelieving looks, he huffs in exasperation. "See for yourselves," he announces, spinning around to stand beside the box. "Welcome," he says dramatically, pushing open the battered doors. "To my TARDIS."

The boys peer in, drinking in the bruised and damaged, yet still remarkable, interior of the police box. It's full of smoke, but that quickly disappears as the Doctor hastily calls for the fans to be turned on, and with a gentle whir, the air is clear. He steps inside, giving them a short grand tour with as much theatrics as he can apparently muster. The brothers slowly follow him in, tapping the metal railings and the cracked console. Everything seems real and solid enough, disproving their half-hearted theories of an illusion.

"So," the Doctor proudly says, a smug expression settling into place as he expects to see their awed looks. "What do you think of my spaceship?"

Mycroft considers for a moment. "Rather anticlimactic," he answers calmly.

Next to him, Sherlock nods. "Bit disappointing, really. Nice try, though."

The Doctor looks positively scandalized.


End file.
